There was one place on billionaire Holden Cross’s estate that even armed men refused to approach after sunset.

The heavy oak doors of the grand foyer stood open, framing the freezing rain that had begun to mix with the snow outside.

Three men stepped into the marble-columned entranceway. They wore tailored black overcoats, their collars turned up against the wind, and their hands rested casually inside their pockets, dangerously close to concealed hardware. They moved with the casual arrogance of men who believed they owned the streets of the entire eastern seaboard.

At the head of the group was Victor Corsini, a man whose face bore the faded, jagged scar of a razor blade and whose eyes looked like polished obsidian.

"Holden," Victor called out, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "Apologies for the late visit. But I think you have something of mine."

From the shadows of the grand staircase, Holden descended. He wasn't wearing his coat. He wore a simple black turtleneck and trousers, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark ink of syndicate tattoos that spanned his skin like battle maps. He looked less like a billionaire businessman and more like an executioner stepping out of myth.

"You're a long way from Palermo, Victor," Holden said, his voice level and entirely devoid of warmth.

"Family business," Victor smiled, stepping further into the foyer. His two enforcers fanned out slightly, their hands shifting. "A little bird flew out of our nest earlier this week. A stray. We thought it might have wandered onto your pristine, overly guarded lawns. You know how children are—they wander off, they get lost in the cold."

"This is private property, Victor. Trespassing on Cross land carries a heavy penalty."

"Is that right?" Victor chuckled, taking another step. "And what about kidnapping? Because hiding a Corsini heir under your roof crosses a line, Holden. Even for you."

Before Holden could answer, a heavy, rhythmic sound echoed from the top of the grand staircase.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Every man in the foyer froze. Victor’s smile faltered.

Phantom walked down the stairs. He didn't run. He descended with terrifying deliberation, each massive paw hitting the wood like a hammer. His amber eyes were fixed entirely on Victor Corsini. Behind the dog, walking with small, measured steps wrapped in a blanket that dragged slightly on the floor, came Lily.

Victor’s face drained of color. He had expected to find a frightened child hidden in a back room. He hadn't expected the beast of the estate acting as her personal vanguard.

"Well, well," Victor muttered, his hand finally dipping beneath his coat, his fingers curling around the grip of a silenced pistol. "Looks like you brought your pet to the slaughter, little girl."